“Of course,” Tripp said quickly. “Is there a problem? I can send another girl. She's had complaints in the past, so I’m not surprised. She’s a mess, I thought she might not be the best fit.She has an attitude that one, I keep telling her it will get her nowhere. Let me see who else I have available.”
Another girl.I didn’t care for that. I also didn’t care for what he was insinuating.
“No.” The word left sharp. Silence on the other end. “She’s performed adequately,” I continued evenly. “I prefer the continuity.”
“Absolutely,” Tripp said, too eager. “I just meant, if there were any concerns?—”
“There are none.”
Another pause.
“And yet you want her file?”
“I do.”
I have been a business acquaintance with Tripp’s father, Alistair Whittaker, for years. So while I knew my request may not be on the up and up, the Whittakers generally didn’t care about such things. Tripp would do whatever I asked of him if he thought it would put him in my good graces.
“I’ll have her file sent over,” he said. “Right away.”
“Thank you,” I said as satisfaction curled inside me.
I ended the call before he could add anything further. The request was unreasonable. I did know that. But, she was in my home accessing personal property. Due diligence was appropriate. That is what I told myself anyway.
The email arrived within minutes with a PDF attached.
I opened it.
Name: Isabelle Blythe. Everything was there from her date of birth to her past employers to the houses she’d cleaned. And she had cleared a background check.
I scrolled.
Emergency contact was listed as a woman named Melanie Keyes. I slid that little piece of information into the back of my mind.
Her address is what stopped me. It wasn’t a street address. It was a P.O. Box.
I stared at it longer than necessary.
P.O. Boxes weren’t uncommon. And yet, the image of the van overlaid the blank space where an address should have been.
I leaned back in my chair.
This was none of my concern. Her living arrangements were irrelevant to her job performance.
I closed the file. I needed to be done with this.
My gaze drifted toward the window, toward the corner of the drive where her van had sat earlier.
Maybe there was a way to give her more money even after the basement project was done. I would figure it out, but I would maintain distance. That was the solution. I set the file aside. Even if it did not quiet anything.
7
BELLE
There is nothing like a Bout night. The air at the Grimm Reapers rink buzzed like live wires. The bleachers were packed. Hand-painted signs waved. Someone had brought a fog machine that absolutely violated several safety codes.
“Columbus Cataclysm!” the announcer boomed. “Versus your own Briar Glen Grimm Reapers!”
The crowd roared as I adjusted my helmet and rolled my shoulders back. This was mine. Not invoices. Not basements. Not men who thought Derby was chaos. This.
